


magpie

by runnoft



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, like seriously they’re both so emotionally stunted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26738548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runnoft/pseuds/runnoft
Summary: “Do you know what a magpie is?”“No, sir.”“It’s a bird—highly intelligent, aggressive, too. They’re reputed to collect shiny objects, they line their nests with them. Makes them a good foil for an opera, I suppose.”“Why would a bird do such a thing?”Adding subtext to that one scene in What Does the Bee Do?
Relationships: Meyer Lansky/Lucky Luciano
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	magpie

**Author's Note:**

> This idea hit me over the head when I noticed for the first time that Charlie’s hand was bleeding in this scene, which of course meant that he’d had to kick the shit out of someone to get those Ingersolls. Which then made me think about him doing this for Meyer. Repeatedly. Over the years. Going to great lengths to say “Hi, I brought you shiny things, please love me.” And what other animal does this...you get it.
> 
> Meyer’s neighbor, Karel, is a Czechoslovakian Jew, and is very loosely based on my own grandfather. He and Meyer are listening to the Overture of Rossini’s opera, La gazza ladra.
> 
> I also desperately wanted to include that in East Asian culture, the magpie is a symbol of good luck and fortune. Again, very in line with our boy but couldn’t figure out how to fit that in.

Charlie’s bloodied hand had been the first thing he noticed. 

“There’s another fifty in the car,” Charlie flexes his fingers, assessing the damage, before balling up the stained dishcloth and setting it on the safe to fetch his drink.

“They’re Ingersolls.” Charlie says as if this would please him somehow. 

“I wish you would stop with this. We schlep around with a box of watches, what do we look like?” He grouses. All that needless energy spent over something they had no use for. 

Charlie’s been doing this since they were kids. Coming to him with split knuckles or a wide smile, sometimes both, and presenting Meyer with whatever trinket he’d managed to pilfer. Pocket watches, rings, cigarette cases, one time a pair of reading glasses (Charlie had said he didn’t want him going blind hunched over “all them books” and Meyer didn’t have the heart to explain that it didn’t work that way). When they fell in with AR, Charlie graduated from mere pickpocketing and the gifts became more extravagant. New pairs of Wingtips, silk ties, and cufflinks. The watches remained a constant, though. Meyer didn’t know if it was out of habit or if Charlie just liked them best. He wanted to refuse them all. Charlie didn’t need to impress him, not anymore, but whenever Meyer put him off Charlie would fix him with that wide-eyed, hangdog look, and well...Meyer could hardly say no to _that._

“Fellas who know what time it is.” Charlie grins, obviously pleased with himself, but the way he fidgets communicates something hesitant and unsure. Like most things that go unspoken between them, Meyer is somehow able to infer exactly what Charlie’s asking. _Did I do good?_

It occurs to him in that moment that over all these years, he’s been the sole recipient of what he considered to be Charlie’s misguided generosity. Sometimes Benny would move to take something Meyer insisted he didn’t want and Charlie would snatch it back with a snarl.

“I didn’t go through all this trouble on account of you.” He would say, and in his next breath he’d call Meyer an ungrateful little prick.

Meyer unwittingly thinks back on his upstairs neighbor, Karel, in the tenements. He was an educated man, a professor maybe, before he came to America. Meyer would sit out on the fire escape when the weather permitted, and listen to the warbled, tinny music that would filter out from his open window that faced the alley. Chopin, Vivaldi, Schubert. One day, he’d invited Meyer inside, out of the cold. He gave him mulled wine and spiced cookies. He put on another record.

“I like this one.” Meyer hummed appreciatively.

“Ah, Rossini. I had no idea I would be entertaining such a man of taste.” Karel said, and sat heavily in a worn wingback chair. “ _La gazza ladra,_ The Thieving Magpie. Do you know any Italian?”

“Some. I’m learning.” Meyer didn’t say that it was more out of necessity than anything.

Karel beamed. “Wonderful! Would you like to know the story?” Meyer nodded. “A grand party is being thrown for the village hero, a solider returned from battle, and he’s in love with a lowly servant girl. During the festivities, some silver goes missing, and the girl is accused. The mayor is called in to investigate, but he too is in love with the girl. When she rejects him, he imprisons her and sentences her to death. Fortunately, the other villagers notice that things have continued to go missing, and finally discover the true culprit. A magpie. And the girl’s life is spared. Do you know what a magpie is?”

“No, sir.”

“It’s a bird—highly intelligent, aggressive, too. They’re reputed to collect shiny objects, they line their nests with them. Makes them a good foil for an opera, I suppose.”

“Why would a bird do such a thing?”

“Why else, dear boy?” Karel laughed. “To attract a mate.”

The memory makes something hot prickle at the back of his neck. Was that it? Was this all some kind of ritual _courtship_ on Charlie’s part? He can feel himself flushing, and he grits his teeth against a sudden wave of embarrassment. Charlie’s had just about every girl between East Houston and Henry Street. And Meyer left a lot to be desired, in looks and most certainly in bedside manner. Although, he thought there had been moments. Moments when Charlie let his hand linger on his shoulder for longer than was strictly companionable. Where he’d offer Meyer the cigarette he’d already lit for himself, and when Meyer put it to his own lips, he’d catch Charlie’s eyes sweeping low to his mouth. Or sitting close enough to press himself along Meyer’s side as they’d count their earnings for the night—thighs, calves, ankles touching—molten points of contact.

_Wishful thinking, stop this now._

“Might as well set up a push cart.” He mumbles, taking a fierce drag from his cigarette.

“Arnold Rothstein’s here.” Benny says bursting through the door, the fucking _mamzer,_ but he’s _right,_ and the panic that sets in takes precedence over anything else.

The rest would have to wait.


End file.
